Chapter Six
The sound of rhythmic thumping and voices roused him. Isabeau’s voice, calling out wordlessly.
As awareness coalesced, he realized he was lying prone in his gelding’s stall. The horse had decided to ignore him and stood with his nose in a box filled with hay, as far away as he could get from Morgan.
Adrenaline kicked him into action. He had no idea how long he’d been out, but he’d been easily visible to anyone who might have glanced into the stall. Pushing himself to a sitting position, he edged back against the shadow of the stall door.
His head swam, black dots danced in front of his eyes, and the wound in his side gave a warning twinge. He pressed a hand against it and glanced down at himself. Liquid red had soaked his shirt and the hip of his pants. He had been bleeding the whole time he’d been unconscious.
The thumping increased in speed, and Isabeau cried out again. Distaste curled Morgan’s lip. She was screwing someone in the stables. The man muttered something unintelligible then emitted a long, low groan. Apparently, at least one of them had achieved culmination.
Isabeau and Modred had a long-standing relationship, to which they were both unfaithful. Modred had pressed Isabeau to marry him for ages, but she refused. She would never let Modred get so close to the power of her throne. Modred was eternally ambitious, and as she had said before to Morgan more than once, he was already close enough to the throne as it was.
And so Isabeau and Modred danced around each other through the centuries, both lovers and conspirators, endlessly colluding in ventures for mutual and individual gain.
Morgan wished they would destroy each other, but as long as Isabeau kept possession of Azrael’s Athame, which gave her control over Morgan and the other Hounds, Modred would never act against her. Aside from her political power, she held too much personal Power and made a deadly enemy.
Morgan had watched them destroy other friends and lovers with their dramas and jealousies. They broke people like children broke toys, carelessly throwing them away when they were ruined to reach for other, brighter playthings. This man, whoever he was, would be no different.
After the man’s groan, the thumping had stopped. There was a rustle of clothing.
“When can we make the announcement?” the man asked. “I don’t want us to hide what we are to each other any longer.”
Morgan recognized his voice. The other male was Valentin, a high-ranking noble from Arkadia, a Light Fae demesne whose crossover passageway was located near Mount Elbrus in Russia.
Valentin had arrived some months ago with a view to strengthening trade and ties between the two demesnes. As Arkadia’s rulers were nearly as xenophobic as Isabeau and had similar views on maintaining racial purity, she had welcomed Valentin with open arms. Quite literally, it appeared.
“We must take our time, my love,” Isabeau purred. “Approach matters gently, and let my court get used to your presence. Let them come to love you as I have learned to. I don’t allow many emissaries from other demesnes to visit here, in the seat of my power. You are still strange to many of us.”
“It’s been months since I’ve arrived,” Valentin insisted. “More than time enough for you and me to fall in love.”
Valentin was another toy that would soon be broken. Not clever enough to have perceived Modred’s enduring position at court, he would push either Isabeau or Modred too far, and Modred would never allow a foreign noble to supplant him.
Valentin’s death would be from poison, or perhaps a fatal fall while riding—something that could be spun to the rulers in Arkadia as an accident. Either that, or he would be driven from Isabeau’s court in disgrace.
“But darling, I am already dealing with so much.” Isabeau’s pout was evident in her voice. “Oberon’s Dark Court is gaining strength. I had thought I’d blocked their access to Earth, but even as we speak, their presence in England grows. That makes my crossover passageways and borders more vulnerable than ever to this interminable war. And the captain of my Hounds is still missing.”
“If one of my captains went missing, I would have him hunted down and strung up for desertion,” Valentin said. But then Valentin didn’t understand the true nature of the relationship between Morgan and Isabeau.
“The situation is not as simple as that,” Isabeau replied impatiently. A note of injury entered her voice. “No one seems to fully understand everything I must cope with!”
As he listened, Morgan considered the precariousness of his situation. No matter what her order had been to him earlier, if she said his name—if she worded a sentence in a way that made it clear she wanted him back and he heard it—his newfound freedom would be gone, and he would have to go to her. The geas would see to that.
He had nothing he could use to stop his ears to avoid hearing her voice. If only he had a lump of beeswax, something. Clenching, he waited to hear the words that would ensure his recapture.
Valentin said, “I understand, my love! I appreciate you have so much to handle!”
“If you did truly understand, you wouldn’t press me so.” Isabeau wept. She was pretty when she cried. Her eyes didn’t swell or redden as shining tears streamed down her cheeks. “Ruling a demesne alone can be so grueling. I swear, at times it is almost too much!”
“If there is anything I can do for you, only say so!” Valentin begged. “That’s why I want to become your partner in both word and deed—in order to shoulder some of the burden you carry. Let me help you!”
It would be a cold day in hell before either Isabeau or Modred would allow that, Morgan thought cynically. Propping his elbow on an upraised knee, Morgan rubbed his tired eyes with thumb and forefinger as he listened to Isabeau manipulate the other man. Valentin was clearly pressing for an advantage, but every word the other man spoke betrayed his true intentions.
Isabeau sniffed. “You can help me! Only ease your insistence about when we go public with our relationship. Let me deal with what I must. When my captain is fully healed, he’ll have no choice but to return to me. My borders will be strengthened, and I will gain the upper hand again in this war. Then I can give you—I can give us—the full attention we deserve. Just be patient with me for now!”
“Of course, I will,” Valentin replied shortly. To Morgan’s ears, the other man sounded truculent. “I’ll be as patient as you need me to be.”
Satisfaction laced Isabeau’s voice as she crooned, “I knew I could count on you. Come, my love. I’m starving. Let’s have lunch on the terrace overlooking the water.”
“Very well.”
Bit by bit, Morgan relaxed as the sound of their voices faded.
He assessed his current situation grimly. Sooner or later, sometime today a stableboy would be around to take the horses out for exercise, muck out the stalls, and give them fresh water.
Meanwhile, he was still dizzy and depleted, and it was midday. He needed to get to his safe spot and his supplies, but he couldn’t. At the moment, he didn’t have enough Power to throw a spell with the kind of strength it would take to cloak a man walking across an open area in broad daylight.
He would have to rest and wait for his opportunity. If a stableboy came to care for the gelding, maybe by then he could cast a spell of shadows in one corner of the stall. If not, perhaps he could spell the stableboy to forget.
Frustration nagged at him. He was going to have to wait until dusk before he could make his way to his supplies. Then he would need to eat and drink, take medication, and tend to his wound before he attempted anything else.
He was going to have to break his promise to Sidonie. There was no way he could reach her soon after the prisoners’ evening meal.
Leaning back in the corner of the stall, he closed his eyes and schooled himself to patience.
* * *
Shortly after her mysterious healer left, Sid’s cell lightened to gray and the guard came by with her morning meal. While he shoved the tray through the slot underneath the barred door, Sid took the chance to look fu
lly around her cell.
It was as bleak as she had remembered when they had first brought her in. The plain, leather-bound cot had no blankets. The hole in the opposite corner was indeed the privy. The walls, ceiling, and floor were solid, hewn rock, all gray and brown. They reflected the fiery colors from the guard’s torch.
The guard didn’t remark on the fact that she no longer lay on the floor curled in a ball. Instead, he left without a word. Before the torchlight could completely fade away, she darted forward to snatch up the tray and dump the contents of the battered bowl—it looked like a watery strew with unidentifiable chunks floating in it—and the cup down the privy hole. Then she set the tray beside the door.
When the light had faded again, it took a while for her eyes to adjust to the darker gray. The sound of something small and furtive scurried nearby, and her imagination was all too happy to offer up an explanation.
It was a rat. Or plural, rats. Of course there would be rats down here. Shuddering, her thoughts went to the hidden food her benefactor had given her. She had wrapped it in her hoodie and tucked it in a corner. Retrieving it quickly, she went to sit on the cot.
The grapes would give her some much-needed moisture, and she knew she would be thirsty later, so she set those aside and ate the bread. It was as tasty as it smelled, simple, yeasty goodness. Tears pricked at the back of her eyes as she nibbled on the crust. She didn’t think she had ever been so grateful for so little before.
Privilege.
It wasn’t something she thought about much. In conversation and in thought, she often looked at how hard she worked (she did work extremely hard), and how much time she put into her music (countless hours). She deserved every bit of the success she had achieved.
But the truth was many other people put in countless hours developing their craft, skill, business, or passion, and they didn’t achieve anything like the success she’d enjoyed. Most people didn’t have the kind of support Sid had gotten from her parents, who had done everything they could to encourage her gift.
When they began to get an inkling of how gifted Sid was musically, her father had given up his faculty position at Dalhousie University in Nova Scotia to take a job at NYU. They moved from Canada just so she could attend Juilliard from an early age.
When she graduated with a master’s in music from Juilliard, she’d never had to take out a student loan. She had begun her adulthood talented, highly educated, and debt free, and if that wasn’t privilege, she didn’t know what was.
Now the simple goodness of a well-baked loaf of bread brought tears to her eyes.
The soup, bread, and fruit weren’t enough calories for a day. She would be hungry later. Forcing herself to stop eating, she set half the loaf of bread carefully with the grapes. Then she counted the strips of crosshatched leather in the cot.
This cot had eleven strips in length and thirty-five across. How irritating! It didn’t match the first cot at all! She counted them again to be sure. Eleven and thirty-five. Then again. Eleven and thirty-five. Then she pulled her pebbles out of her pocket and counted them. Twenty-one. Twenty-one. Twenty-one.
Finally she forced herself to shove the pebbles back into her pocket. It was much harder to do than she had expected. The only way she could do it was by promising herself that she could count her grapes again.
Her OCD had never been so bad before. When she was at home and comfortable in New York, it was little more than an annoyance. She had to go back into her apartment after leaving to double-check all the appliances and lights were safely off. She never caught a taxi on the left side of the street, even when it was a one-way street. She always counted the light posts on each block as she walked. But it was all manageable.
Now she had the stress, the fear that never really subsided, and she had nothing to do. Nowhere to go. Nothing to see, and no one to talk to.
But she had her hands, and that gave her the will to live again.
I will not fade away into the dark, she thought. I will not.
So I must decide what I will do. Otherwise I’ll degenerate into counting pebbles incessantly in the dark.
I will stay fit. Somehow, at some point, I’m going to get a chance to get out of here, and I’ll need to be ready.
I will practice my music. I don’t have any instruments to play, and I can’t write down any music, but I can still compose songs in my mind.
I have my memory. I have my will.
I have my intellect and imagination.
The first thing she did every morning was exercise. Being a professional musician was strenuous work, and if she didn’t look after her body, she ended up with back and neck strain. So if her running stride was approximately 1,700 steps in a mile, then in order to run three miles she needed to get in 5,100 steps before she did anything else.
(Plus she got to count something!… AGGGHHH! When she got free of this nightmare, she was going to need a whole lot of therapy.)
Standing, she went through a series of stretches. Then she jogged in a circle around her cell, careful to avoid the cot, the walls, and the privy in the corner.
When she reached the right number of steps, she stopped and let herself have some of her grapes as a reward. She ate twenty-one as she fingered her twenty-one pebbles. Then she began to run through the fingering of the musical scale as she conjured up the sound of her violin in her mind.
As she did so, her thoughts drifted to her last concert. Brandon’s tempo had been weak in the third number, and Derrick needed to cut back on the bass. She made mental notes of the things she had wanted to discuss with her band in Paris.
If… her thoughts faltered. When she got out of this hellhole, hopefully the time slippage won’t have been too significant. It had taken her a lot of work to find the right backup with the right chemistry. She wanted to make sure she reached out to them as soon as she could before they found other gigs.
The momentum she built for herself crumbled.
She had eleven grapes left, along with half a small loaf of bread, and the gray, formless day was interminable. Occasionally she still heard the soft, quiet scurry of something small nearby, and the distant sound of tired sobbing never ceased. Compassion for whatever it was warred with the increasing desire to scream at it to shut up, until she felt as if her head might explode.
Finally hunger grew uncomfortable enough that she ate the last of the food and shrugged into her filthy hoodie for what comfort and warmth it gave. She had read somewhere once that the temperature underground remained a constant fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit. While that was certainly survivable, it wasn’t comfortable, especially without enough calories to burn as fuel.
It seemed like forever until the bright fire of the torch began to brighten the walls of her cell as the guard brought her another inedible meal. As before, she waited until the guard strode away before taking the bowl and the cup to the privy.
This time it was a lot harder to throw the stew and water away, but she did. Afterward, she climbed onto the cot, curled into a ball, wrapped her arms around her legs, and waited. And waited.
He didn’t come. He didn’t come.
He didn’t come.
After a long, formless time of waiting, tears welled up and spilled over. It had taken all her strength just to get through one dark day, and while she hadn’t wanted to rely so desperately on him showing up, she had.
Maybe something had happened to him. Maybe this whole thing was just a cruel, sick joke.
Maybe he was Modred. Modred was on intimate terms with Isabeau—maybe he was the man her kidnapper, Robin, had referred to. When she had first met him, Modred had seemed perfectly acceptable, even charming at first, before he’d shown utter indifference to Isabeau’s order and had personally seen to executing it.
At the memory of him breaking her fingers, she felt nauseous and wanted to vomit, except she refused to let go of the precious little liquid and nutrition she had in her stomach. She took deep, even breaths until the nausea passed.
&n
bsp; Just when she thought she couldn’t take any more uncertainty, despair, and paranoia, her overtaxed body decided it’d had enough, and besides, there wasn’t any reason not to, so she spiraled into sleep and dreamed Modred broke all her fingers with smiling efficiency, no matter how she screamed and begged. Her thumbs, as well.
She woke all at once to a hard hand pressed over her mouth. Adrenaline screamed at her to move. When she would have struggled, she discovered something hard and unyielding pinned one of her arms to the cot while another hand gripped her other wrist.
“Don’t hit me.”
The soft growl came from overhead. Despite the darkness and the fact that she had never heard him speak in anything but a whisper, she recognized it. Recognized him.
Relief and gladness chased after the surge of adrenaline. Even as she tried to figure out just how he had pinned her, she nodded in quick response. As he slowly released her wrist, his other hand lifted from her mouth. The hard pressure that pinned her other arm to the cot lifted, and she realized he’d used the weight of one knee to immobilize her.
She bolted to a sitting position and swung her legs off the cot. The leather strips creaked as he sat beside her. Easy tears stung her eyes again. Fiercely glad he couldn’t see them, she whispered, “I did as you said and threw away the food and water. Then I thought you weren’t going to come.”
There was a pause as he seemed to assimilate all that her sentence implied. Then he told her, “I got held up. Unfortunately, there were complications.”
What complications? The last time he had been here, he hadn’t been well. She laced trembling fingers together and twisted them. Whoever he was, he was virtually her only link to survival. “Are… are you all right?”
When he answered, his whisper was warmer, gentler. “I am now. I bet you’re ready for some food and water.”
“Oh God, yes.”
Listening intently, she heard a brush of cloth, and the quiet sound of a zipper.
Spellbinder (Moonshadow Book 2) Page 9